


What The Mind Forgets, The Body Does Not

by sugarboms898



Series: Never to Come Out [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Light Angst, Other, References to Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-29 05:11:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11433843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarboms898/pseuds/sugarboms898
Summary: In the distant, soft-edged parts of her mind, the sight of the ice calls to her. It beckons her forward, her feet crunching on the freshly fallen snow; catching herself, she forces herself backwards, clamping her legs together in an effort to remain motionless and firm. Muscle-memory from that life, still present even now.





	What The Mind Forgets, The Body Does Not

**Author's Note:**

> What started as an idea about how Amélie used to enjoy figure skating somehow spiraled into this.

The last time she had been in Paris—France, even—a knife had nearly been lodged between her ribs, leaving her with a long, thin scar as a reminder. She had been young, inexperienced, unsure of herself. She has not made the same mistake twice, no matter how familiar the faces are, how young or how innocent they appear. It has been years since the press of that blade against her skin, yet as she passes a tucked away bakery with lit up windows, she feels the bite of metal drag across her skin.

It is December, snow already falling. It is the coldest winter yet, though she barely feels it. Even _before_ , she could step out with little more than a light jacket or cardigan on and be fine. She doesn’t like it, remembering _before_ , though she supposes it has some perks: knowledge of this city laid out in her mind, where to go to stay out of sight, where to be seen. Places that will look the other way if you slide them 20 euros, places that will get you anything you want if you just do them _une petite faveur, si vou plaît_.

For now, she sticks to the side streets, her jacket wrapped tightly around her figure, carefully hiding the handgun strapped to her side. A sniper rifle just a touch too conspicuous. In her pocket, a faint buzzing makes her pause. She pulls out a communicator, placing it gently in her ear.

“Quoi?”

A low humming fills her ear before a soft laugh makes her scowl.

_“Hola, amiga.”_

“Sombra,” she growls out, her eyes darting around the street, “ _what do you want?_ ”

_“Por Díos, you’re so tense, Widow. Learn to relax a little. Or did they take that away from you, too?”_

Widowmaker starts walking again, her shoulders tense and her expression murderous. Sombra continues to chatter in her ear, devolving into gossip about this agent or that from TALON. She makes it down another two blocks before her patience snaps.

“If you’re risking my position just to gossip, I _will_ kill you.”

A genuine laugh fills her ear, a few snorts peppering it. Widowmaker sneered, two seconds from removing her communicator and destroying it.

 _“Lo siento, no mi intención burlarme. It’s just cute, how you’re pretending you’re on a mission. You_ do _realize that the council cleared everyone for the holidays, sí? Even us villainous sorts should get to spend the holidays with familia.”_

Widowmaker’s scowl deepens, her feet rooted to the sidewalk. She leaves prints on the lightly covered pavement, the indents slowly filling with falling snow. After a tense moment, she sighs in disgust, her voice practically dripping in acid.

“What do you _want_?”

Sombra hums, the distinct sound of her augmented gloves clicking across an actual keyboard filling Widowmaker’s ears. The Frenchwoman pursed her lips, her hands twitching for her gun’s familiar weight.

_“I just wanted to check in with you! Is it so difficult to believe that we’re friends?”_

“We are _not_ friends, Sombra. You are a continual thorn in my side, one I would not mind _getting rid of immediately._ ”

A small giggle is her only response, Widowmaker’s jaw tightening slightly.

_“Cálmate, Widow. I’m giving you a head’s up—the council’s asking Gabe to help recover Doomfist and his gauntlet. He’s doing it in a week, with minimal assistance from me, but he might need you as a sniper, just in case.”_

Widowmaker gives a small hum, her feet pulling her down another side street. Sombra continues to talk in her ear, seemingly returning to gossip. The Frenchwoman’s detour brings her to a park, an ice rink set up in its middle. She pauses to watch as a few children and adults skate around the rink, their voices full of mirth and laughter.

“Merci.”

Sombra’s rambling halts, her surprise genuine in her voice when she says, _“¿Seriamente? You’re thanking me?”_

Widowmaker makes a small sound of agreement, her attention still stuck on the skating figures. Sombra gives a small huff, obviously flustered.

 _“Well. That’s. De nada, Widow. So, does this mean you_ do _consider us frie—”_

Widowmaker removes her communicator, shoving it back in her pocket. She stands near the edge of the park, watching the skaters with mild fascination. In the distant, soft-edged parts of her mind, the sight of the ice calls to her. It beckons her forward, her feet crunching on the freshly fallen snow; catching herself, she forces herself backwards, clamping her legs together in an effort to remain motionless and firm. Muscle-memory from that life, still present even now. She hates that her  _before_ life keeps trickling in, clouding her thoughts with times long past, memories long buried under mission briefings and targets’ faces. What the mind forgets, the body does not; pursing her lips, she allows herself one moment of weakness—one moment of remembrance for the woman she used to be.

She turns quickly, retracing her steps back down the sidewalk and into a small local cemetery closer to Hôtel de Ville. _Before_ , she would have had her remains interred in Annecy, but this was what _he_ had picked out; befitting for his arrogant personality. She bypasses the large monuments and tombs, the statues and mementos until she reaches a bleached-white stone, the sight of a single rose making her stop suddenly. Taking a small step forward, she bends down to pick up the flower, turning it over to find any indication of who left it.

Finding nothing, she looks up and glances around the cemetery, noticing a few other similar roses scattered among the graves. Gently placing it down, Widowmaker enters the next row, bending down to search for a note on the slightly frozen flower. A small piece of cardstock is her reward, a simple message embossed on one side.

_Merci pour votre service à votre pays._

Putting it back down, Widowmaker sneers at the rose at his marker. Something inside her claws at her chest, her heart beating faster than it has since assassinating the Shambali leader in King’s Row. Slowly, she walks back to his grave, her heels sinking into the frost. She stands there for a minute, allowing locked-up memories to invade her senses.

A gentle brush of a hand in hers as they meet, his chest emblazoned with accolades and metals. Flowers pressed into her hands after the performance that gains her nation-wide notoriety. A confident—cocky—smile as he kneels at her side. The two of them twirling around a crowded ballroom, her face still painted with makeup from the stage. Their wedding under the night stars in Annecy, her aunt walking her down the aisle to his side. A quiet night, their loud breathing drowning out the sounds of the city outside their windows. His face when she settles above him, his hands gripping her arms tightly, trying to force her away as she—

Turning her head away, she looks up at the falling snow. Looking down at the grave once more, she gently brushes some snow from its top before digging some out of the engraved lettering near the bottom. If her hands shake as she clears the stone, she does not acknowledge it. It was foolish to return, she thinks, her ribs aching with fire. She should not have come to open old wounds. And yet.

It is the most she’s felt in _months_. Though her handlers want her apathetic, cold, emotionless—Widowmaker wants. She _craves_ to feel. Every time she comes into contact with Overwatch members, talks to Sombra or works with Reaper—she feels the programming and conditioning weakening. She had simply forgotten how painful feeling could be. _Just a moment_ , she reasons, the sharp stabbing in her ribs slowly dulling into a sweet ache, _just a moment longer to remember._

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to reference the lore and outside events for the game, but ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Hôtel de Ville is the city hall of Paris, located roughly in the center of the city.  
> The cemetery Gérard is buried in is not an actual cemetery.
> 
>  
> 
> Translations:  
>  _"Quoi?"_ = "What?"  
>  _"Hola, amiga."_ = "Hi, friend."  
>  _"Por Díos..."_ = "God..."  
>  _"Lo siento, no mi intención burlarme."_ = "Sorry, it wasn't my intention to laugh at you."  
>  _"Cálmate."_ = "Calm down."  
>  _"¿Seriamente?"_ = "Seriously?"  
>  _Merci pour votre service à voter pays._ = Thank you for your service for your country.
> 
> Kudos/Comments welcome!


End file.
